The Year of the Gadfly by Jennifer Miller Read Free Book Online Page B

slips of paper with a designation—interviewer or subject. The subject will sit here and wear the cuffs. The interviewer will sit in front of the control panel and read questions from a list. For every question the subject gets wrong, the interviewer will press a button, giving a slight shock. It’s no more than a slight buzz and totally harmless. All right?”
    â€œAnd then what?” Sarah asked. “What are you trying to prove?”
    The little tornado in my stomach gained speed, but Mr. Kaplan’s dispassionate expression reassured me. “Just a little shock?” I asked.
    â€œTotally harmless,” Dr. Van Laark repeated.
    Sarah and I flashed competing glances at each other; neither of us wanted to be the subject. But then I thought about the kids who’d come before us and emerged looking so upset—all four of them, come to think of it, not just the two subjects. Maybe they were
instructed
to act upset. Maybe all of this was some kind of psychology trick in which the people outside of the Black Box were really the experiment subjects.
What do you think,
Murrow,
I wondered.
Is that the catch?
    â€œSarah,” Dr. Van Laark was saying, “why don’t you select first.”
    Sarah plucked a strip of paper from Dr. Van Laark’s palm. “Interviewer,” she announced, like she’d won a prize.
    There was only one other option, but I picked up my paper anyway.
    â€œHave fun, Subject,” Sarah scoffed, as Mr. Kaplan led her around the divider.
    â€œIris,” Dr. Van Laark said, “please take a seat.”
    I looked at the wrist cuffs, my heart beating fast. Dr. Van Laark opened a laptop, and Mr. Kaplan and Sarah appeared on its screen.
    â€œNow, Sarah,” he was saying. “You should press a higher-numbered button for every question Iris gets wrong. These deliver increasingly stronger volts.”
    I looked in horror at Dr. Van Laark and was about to protest when she put her finger to her lips. Then she leaned down, so close that I could smell her perfume. It was deep and sweet, like a rare, intoxicating flower. “The machines are fake,” she whispered. “You won’t even wear the cuffs, but for each question you get wrong, you must give an increasingly strong reaction. Twenty volts should be a relatively minor yelp. The higher we go, the more intense. Here’s a sheet with suggested responses. Understand?” She placed the instructions before me.
    So that’s the catch,
I thought.
The interviewer thinks she’s in control, when really
she’s
the subject.
Mr. Kaplan glanced at the video camera that was recording the scene on his side of the divider, and I swear he was looking right at me, his expression full of intimate understanding. For the first time since coming to Nye, I felt confident, even powerful.
    Mr. Kaplan handed Sarah a stack of note cards. She flipped the first one over and asked me a question about piezophiles, microorganisms able to withstand extreme pressure. I answered correctly. She asked a second question about piezophiles. Also right. I’d studied a lot over the weekend. I got the third question wrong, but it required a mathematical equation, and I didn’t have a pen. “Administer twenty volts,” Mr. Kaplan said. Sarah pressed the button and it buzzed.
    â€œKind of tickles,” I said, reading from Dr. Van Laark’s response sheet. On the monitor, Sarah chuckled.
    I answered the next two questions, about halophiles, right. Then I goofed a second time.
    â€œAdminister forty volts,” Mr. Kaplan said. Sarah pushed the button and I gave the instructed yelp. Sarah smiled, but she looked uncomfortable.
    Dr. Van Laark nodded at me. “Just like that,” she whispered. “You’re doing great.”
    I answered the next question incorrectly, too. It didn’t matter, but I didn’t like being wrong twice in a row. Meanwhile, Mr. Kaplan was asking Sarah to